The stones,
A stumbling walk,
For the crippled old man;
Across the stones of the High Pass,
Stumbles.

Pausing,
Vista listens,
For the crippled old man;
Screaming into a whistling wind,
Ranting.

Skies rain
Upon ravings,
Drenching numbing the pain,
Forcing away down walk of stone,
Stumbles.

Exile,
Cast to the stones,
Where western ear won’t hear,
The truth written or spoken bold;
Echoes.

Gray piling,
Stones upon other gray stones
The trudging,
And stumbling
Ending with dying alone
Storms ending.

Collapsing
Within the gray piles of stone
Another,
Lies under,
Resting midst the long dead bone,
Death tasting.

Amidst death,
Cavern of a shattered home
He’s waking
To being
And becoming like the gray stone
With his breath.